The Woman Whispers

This may be a bit dark, however suicide is a pretty big deal in my family and my mindset always shifts to romanticizing the idea of suffering (I know, a little messed up).

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She sits there, at the foot of bed, every night watching over me. She wears a black satin night gown, somehow flowing when there is no wind. She is beautiful, her features like perfection as if she is too good to be true. Her fair skin radiating in the darkness, her deep dark eyes staring into my soul. Her eyes never blink, and she never moves an inch but when I wake she is gone like a dream; I wonder if she was ever there at all.

She stands there, in each mirror, staring right back at me. Her lips never move but I hear her whisper, no man could resist her call. Her skin is like silk soft and soothing, more like a blanket than flesh. When she holds me I can feel my pain drifting slowly into thin air, but then the morning comes and she is gone again and in her place all my fears.

But tonight she won't sit and stare, no tonight I will take her to bed. I have no regrets, for none should be had because in the morning I will be dead.